Adored by the ac­claim­ing crowd,
He falls a man, and not a god!
He falls (no soon­er dei­fied
Than smote) a sac­ri­fice to pride,
Anticipates the fi­nal hour,
And worms their fel­low worm de­vour.

The man who praise from man re­ceives,
Nor to his God the glo­ry gives,
In him the just re­ward we see
Of sac­ri­le­gious va­ni­ty;
And all which na­ture called her own
We now re­fer to God alone.

But chief­ly, Lord, the gifts of grace
To Thy sole glo­ry we con­fess,
Afraid to rob Thee of Thy right,
And ar­ro­gate with vain de­light,
Or take the hom­age of the throng
Which on­ly doth to Thee be­long.

Whoe’er, like Lu­ci­fer, as­pire,
And suf­fer men their grace t’ad­mire,
Most hum­bled, when ex­alt­ed most,
Of Christ alone we make our boast,
And own (if we per­fect­ion name)
Perfection is with Christ the same.